


Aziraphale's Demon on his Knees

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Bondage, Crowley fantasizes about anonymous sex, Dom/sub, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, M/M, Mention of sex toys, Minor Anxiety, Post-Canon, Romance, a little oral, and post sex cake, but it's really freaky sex with Aziraphale, fluff at the end, just the ramblings of an ineffable bdsm expert, roleplaying, some relationship doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25834792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Stuck apart during lockdown, Crowley buys Aziraphale a brand new iPhone, and this time, Aziraphale accepts. In two months, he discovers sexting, and asks his demon a very dangerous question, which leads to the fulfillment of a one of Crowley's longest held fantasies ...... being Dominated by Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 314





	Aziraphale's Demon on his Knees

**Author's Note:**

> This is the partial re-working of another fic I wrote, but which may have more parts to it. It's also somewhat inspired by a wonderful sketch by Whiteley Foster that she posted on her Patreon, so I can't link it. Sorry. You’ll have to subscribe to her if you want to see it. (Believe me, it’s worth it!!) But it is also the inspiration for a glory hole fic I'm writing, so that should give you a clue ;) Also I changed the title just a bit so it wouldn't get confused with another fic I'm writing for a different fandom. :)

_Tell me about your dirtiest_ _sexual_ _fantasy_ _._

_Please._

_And Thank you._

Crowley reads Aziraphale’s texts and laughs out loud.

Two months.

Aziraphale had only consented to using his new cell phone two months ago. To top it off, it’s probably the hundredth phone Crowley has gotten him since cellular phones have been invented. But seeing as they’re on lockdown and Aziraphale’s landline has been less than reliable (through no fault of Crowley’s, he assured him), Aziraphale finally relented when the latest iPhone popped up on his desk out of thin air, activated and ready for use.

Still, he didn’t take to it right away. Even though Crowley set him up with apps he felt Aziraphale would find most useful, Aziraphale isn’t all that comfortable with them.

He has yet to even access his voicemail inbox.

But two months is how long it took Aziraphale to discover sexting.

Either that, or now that the Nope-ageddon is over and they have time to explore the 6,000-year-old relationship Aziraphale claimed they don’t have, Crowley has become a worse influence on him than ever.

And yet, he’s still so polite.

 _Are you serious?_ Crowley texts. _Why would you, a principality, want to know that?_

_Aren’t you the one always telling me to broaden my horizons? Get a little more daring? Besides, it’s just sex, Crowley. It’s not that big a deal._

Crowley’s eyes pop open wide at that, genuinely trying to remember when that conversation could have come up. And when on Earth did Aziraphale become blase on the subject of sex? Since Crowley can’t recall such a dialogue, he can only conclude that yes, he is becoming a bad influence, without even realizing it.

_How do you know I even have a dirty fantasy? Sex is a human indulgence. I may tempt them to it, but it’s not something I bother myself with._

Crowley presses send and waits - as in, he stands completely still in one spot and stares at the screen until he gets a response back. When it does come through, he selects it so quickly, he nearly cracks his screen in the process.

_Because I know you, my dear. You are an extremely curious demon. Even if you haven’t indulged in said fantasy, you probably have one._

Crowley grimaces at his phone. _Smart arse angel. Fine. Maybe I do have one. Why do you want to know what it is?_

Crowley waits again. He has to wait a little longer this time. Gripping his phone in his hand, he feels a long, troubled sigh fill his body - Aziraphale’s sigh from miles away.

_Because I am a curious angel. And it’s been far too long since you and I have seen one another in the flesh._

Crowley softens. Of course now he _has_ to tell him. Besides, when was the last time he denied his angel anything?

_Alright, alright_ _._ _J_ _ust_ _…_ _give me a second._

_Take all the time you need, my dear._ A warmth shoots up Crowley’s arm - the warmth of Aziraphale’s smile, the one that comes with that fetching little wiggle he does when he gets his way.

Crowley crosses through rooms from his living room to his office and sits down on his throne. The bed would probably be more apropos for this conversation, but not conducive to coherent thought.

Not when his knees are already buckling and his face flushed.

 _I do have one fantasy_ , Crowley texts. _But you have to swear that if I tell you, you promise not to judge me._

_Why on Earth would I judge you?_

_Because that’s what angels do. And whether or not you want to admit it, I know you, too._

A substantial pause, and then _\- You have my word. Now, please. Go ahead._

 _Fine._ Crowley clears his throat though he’s not actually speaking. _I’m in_ _a room somewhere …_

_Somewhere? Nowhere in specific?_

_No. Nowhere in specific._ Crowley makes a few mistakes typing the next few words, his hands shaking annoyingly. _Eyes_ _closed, hands tied behind my back, and I’m waiting with the door cracked open. Some_ _one_ _walks in – I don’t know who_ (which is a huge and blatant lie because he does know. He’s known for thousands of years. There’s only one he trusts to do this … only one he _wants_ to do this …) _and frankly, I don’t care. I don’t have a relationship with him. I’m not paying him to be there_ _, not tempting him either_ _. But I am expecting him_ _…_ _or someone. Basically, I’m offering myself up for grabs to anyone walking by._

Crowley pauses a second, mouth dry, heart racing in his chest. It’s his biggest fantasy, but it would also be punishment. Punishment for things that he’s done in Hell’s name.

Punishment for not having the courage to go after the things he wants.

How horrible would it be to have some random human wreck him instead of the one he wants so much he’s ready to claw his skin clean off his body?

_And then?_

Crowley grins, for a brief moment thrilled that he’s lured Aziraphale in to his secret erotic dream.

_H_ _e fucks me, entirely unconcerned with who I am or what I want. I’m just there for his use, his pleasure._

_And that doesn’t frighten you? Surrendering control? Being at his mercy?_

Seeing those words makes Crowley’s heart beat faster. That’s _exactly_ what he wants.

He wants to surrender control …

… but only to Aziraphale.

But how does he let that nugget of information slip without being too obvious, sending up flares and a red flag?

_Yes and no. I’d like to believe that whoever he is, he’s not interested in ending my existence, not showing up with a bucket of holy water to dunk on me. He’s just there to use me_ _. He fucks me, he c_ _ome_ _s, he leaves, and that’s pretty much where the fantasy ends._

Crowley’s cock has gotten hard while he’s been texting. He squashes his erection with the palm of his hand, staring at the end of his last message, waiting for Aziraphale’s reply.

_And you’d give that kind of power to a human?_

Crowley’s thumbs hover over the keyboard while he tries to find an answer to that question, one that won’t reveal his hand. _I’m not saying that necessarily …_

_That seems rather reckless of you, my dear._

Crowley’s heart sinks as he types back - _Yeah. Well, that’s part of the point._

_And it’s not a temptation? Not to reap souls for Satan? Just something you want?_

_If I manage to kill two birds with one stone, bully for me then. But no. It’s just something I want. For me._

_And you’ve never done this before?_

_No_ Crowley texts, holding his breath, wondering what Aziraphale is getting at. _Not once._

The message he gets back speeds his heart into oblivion.

_Do you f_ _eel like making that fantasy a reality?_

Crowley raises an eyebrow. _What do you mean?_

_I mean it’s been two months, Crowley. And I miss you terribly._

_You would do that?_ Crowley asks, bordering on incredulous. _You would come to my flat right now, after months of protesting that it would be setting a bad example for the humans, to engage in what you admit is reckless behaviour?_

Crowley hits send before he has a chance to consider the tone of his message. It sounds cruel when he reads it back, unfair to berate Aziraphale when the realization of this fantasy is all he’s ever wanted. He expects Aziraphale’s next message will be him backpedaling with a _Silly me. You’re right. I apologize. Oh! There’s the kettle. Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later._ But the message Aziraphale sends is a single word that makes Crowley’s coal heart clench into a diamond.

_Please?_

Several auto-responses wait in a row underneath Aziraphale’s plea, and without having to think (which he hasn’t been doing much of anyway) Crowley hits one.

It doesn’t require him to hit send, ergo no second thoughts.

_Yes._

Aziraphale takes so long to respond, Crowley thinks he may just not, that he changed his mind or worse - Crowley walked into some sort of trap and now Aziraphale doesn’t want to speak to him anymore. Unlikely considering all they’ve been through in the past 6,000 years, but that fear has been with him for decades, a constant backdrop in his mind.

How far is too far for Aziraphale?

Without intending to, he may now find out.

_Get comfortable, dear. I’m on my way._

And that’s that.

Crowley stares at his phone for a good fifteen minutes, on the one hand, so excited he can barely contain himself.

On the other, a single thought, a single _doubt_ , scrolls through his brain.

What had he done?

Was this really wise? With angel of all people? They hadn’t gotten much farther physically than romantic kissing and tender lovemaking. This feels a bit like jumping from the shallow end of the swimming pool, where there’s a lifeguard, flotation devices, and a first aid station, straight into the Mariana Trench, blindfolded and naked.

But Crowley hated the idea of saying no to this opportunity. He’s carried this fantasy with him for longer than even he can remember, harbored it under the belief it would never happen.

But does that mean he really should have said yes?

It’s a lot to think about, but he doesn’t want to _think_ _._ He wants to _do_. That’s what the fantasy is about after all - shutting off his mind and relinquishing control. _H_ _e wants this_ he repeats to his naysaying conscience. He wants to be used, to be seen as an object by the only being he trusts with his meticulously crafted corporeal form. He’s wanted it for years, and here it was being handed to him. Is that the kind of thing he wants to wait for, risk putting into the hands of someone he won’t feel safe with, demon powers or no?

No. 

He wants Aziraphale.

And he doesn’t want to wait another 6,000 years to have him this way.

Crowley rushes to his bedroom and strips off his clothes, hanging each article carefully in his closet, needing this ritual of undressing and preparing to keep from doing something rash solely out of anxiety, like getting blisteringly drunk - the kind of drunk he can’t sober up from alone, or transforming into a snake and hiding in the rafters.

He debates whether or not he should jump in the shower. He doesn’t really need to shower. No demon does. He can simply snap himself clean. But showering would be another step in the ritual, another step towards leaving behind his doubts and his fears and becoming more at one with this decision.

But he’s already taken up quite a bit of time being catatonic.

Crowley’s showers are legendary. They last nearly as long as his naps. What if he’s still in the bathroom when Aziraphale arrives? That will pretty much sabotage the mood of this scene. Aziraphale walking in on him trussed up like a turkey is integral to the set up.

It’s the one element he cannot risk.

After more time wasted arguing this in his head, he finally does jump in the shower. It’s quick, it’s cold, and it’s not at all relaxing, but he feels clean - _tangibly_ clean. That automatically makes him feel better.

When he gets out, he immediately checks his phone, eager for any word from Aziraphale.

But mostly to see if his angel backed out.

Crowley would be disappointed, but he’d understand.

But if Aziraphale sent him that message and Crowley doesn’t catch it in time to reasonably respond, Aziraphale might think he’s angry at him. The last thing Crowley wants between them is miscommunication and bad feelings.

There is a new text on his screen, one sent not too long ago.

_Caught a taxi. Be there in a few._

“Oh, God,” Crowley mutters, then swallows hard. “He took a taxi.”

Aziraphale isn’t a taxi sort of angel, not unless there is somewhere he needs to be urgently, and even then, he’ll double check the bus schedule to see if that’ll cut it. Aziraphale is taking no chances.

Which means he’s as excited about this as Crowley is.

Crowley scans his room. _He_ may be sorted, but his room is nowhere near where he wants it to be. He has to work _fast_.

He changes his sheets, fluffs his pillows, rearranges some furniture, then puts half of it back the way it was. At the end of his bed, he has a mirror - a stand-up, full length piece of glass. The way he has it positioned, he’d be able to see Aziraphale behind him, his strong hands holding his hips, manicured nails digging into his skin, those faces of deep concentration he makes that Crowley loves but Aziraphale isn’t fond of.

But … anonymous.

Crowley wants the illusion of anonymity. If he focuses on Aziraphale, on how much he adores him, how good he is for him, it will detract from the purpose of this scene.

To be an object. To be used.

But he might be willing to bend the rules a little …?

Ngk. He doesn’t have time for indecision.

Still on the fence, he flips the mirror around and faces it away.

Crowley wonders for a moment if Aziraphale has a fantasy, too. What would that fantasy include? Toys? Plugs? Whips? Cake? To be on the safe side, he miracles up a selection of items on his nightstand, the first ones that pop into his head when he imagines a Dominant Aziraphale: a moose-hide flogger with rabbit tails, a silver plug with an opal set into the base, an Aneros massager, and an entire angel food cake … to keep up Aziraphale’s strength, in case there’s a round two. He probably shouldn’t be using magic for this, especially not when delivery services exist. What on Earth is Hell going to think when his quarterly reports come in?

Does he really care?

Sort of. But he’ll come up with something, deal with the consequences of filling out those forms later.

In the fantasy, Crowley has his hands tied behind his back before Aziraphale … uh … his mystery man … ever gets there. So what should he use? He takes a look around, takes stock of what’s been left about - a neck tie, a pair of socks, some miscellaneous cord, a leather belt …

Oh, blessed yes! His black leather belt! The one with the snake buckle. He knows for a fact that Aziraphale fancies it.

He grabs it up and gives tying his wrists together a shot without magic, wrapping it around and fastening it like normal, pulling the end taut with his teeth. It works well enough, but that’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want his hands in front of him.

He wants to be incapacitated.

Crowley approaches it another way, recalls how some of the greatest sadists in history used to incapacitate their _partners,_ musesWWTMDSD? (What would the Marquis de Sade do?) Suddenly, it comes to him - predicament torture. Something that lures him into believing he has control but then snatches it from him.

He loops the belt around his waist and buckles it loosely. Then he slips his hands underneath it at his hips till the leather fits snug around his wrists. When he climbs up on the bed, kneels down, and bends forward, the belt tightens, making it impossible for him to pull his hands out again. Of course, that will change when he kneels up, but for now, he’s subdued.

Maybe Aziraphale can come up with something - some other way of keeping him immobile. If Crowley remembers correctly, Aziraphale was a rather apt admirer of de Sade’s back in the day, was invited to many a dinner party. What might he come up with? His watch chain tied so hard that the links dig into Crowley’s skin? His own belt, thicker and longer than Crowley’s, which would leave Aziraphale a tail to whip him with?

His bare hands?

Crowley’s world stops short envisioning Aziraphale wrapping his hands around his wrists, forearm muscles bugling as he yanks Crowley back into a bow position and drives into him hard.

Crowley moans into his sheet, his cock throbbing at the thought. With his wrists locked at his sides, there’s no way for him to ease that pressure.

With any luck, Aziraphale will arrive soon to ease it for him, one way or another.

From the time of Aziraphale’s last text and his own mental calculating, Crowley figures Aziraphale should be there in minutes, so he stays where he is, cheek to the mattress, arse in the air, waiting for his “mystery lover” to arrive.

***

 _I’m not supposed to know who you are?_ Aziraphale had texted, presumably from the taxi, before Crowley got into position.

_No, angel. The fantasy is anonymous sex._

_So I shouldn’t talk._

_If you can avoid it._

_And I shouldn’t use your name when we’re together?_

_No._

_That’s a shame._

_Why’s that?_

_Because you have such a lovely name._

With his eyes closed, Crowley lets that conversation occupy his mind.

His name.

Aziraphale thinks he has a lovely name.

A smile slips across Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale definitely does use it when he has the chance, _especially_ when they’re in bed together. The times they’ve made love, he’s said it over and over and over again, until it stops being a name at all and becomes a plea.

Or a prayer.

Crowley had thought Aziraphale said it so much simply because it was something to spur him along, a replacement for _God_ the way humans chant during sex.

But no.

Aziraphale thinks he has a lovely name.

Crowley shakes his head. He has to stop this. He has to stop thinking like this or else, ironically, this is going to feel like cheating.

Crowley focuses on his sheets, cool against his cheek, smelling like lavender courtesy of the sprigs he keeps dried and underneath his pillow. They help clear his mind, help him sleep. He takes a deep breath in, letting that scent scrub through his sinuses, do its job.

It’s not just lavender. It’s stoechas lavender - a less sturdy variety than English lavender, though the rub there is that lavender isn’t native to the UK. It was brought over by the Romans in the 13th century, which is how Crowley acquired his cuttings.

He focuses on the minutia of his immediate space to calm the wheels grinding in his brain. His sheets he buys from a tailor on Savile Row who fashions them just for him. Why? Because Crowley can afford it, that’s why. They’re stark white with a hint of taupe polka-dotting that’s difficult to see this close. With his eyes inches from the mattress, he can kind of make out where a single pale dot colors the individual fibers and how those fibers weave in a hatch pattern over and under, over and under.

He’s about to count the threads, give his brain a new task to tackle, when he hears footsteps echo down the hallway leading to his front door.

Crowley doesn’t consciously hold his breath. His body simply stops breathing.

It’s 3:27 in the afternoon. With most of the curtains drawn, his room has taken on a gray pallor. A ray of golden sunlight streams through a crack between two panels, spreading across his skin and putting him in an unintended spotlight. He contemplates snapping them closed but doesn’t.

A depraved part of him likes pushing the boundaries of his own tolerance for vulnerability.

A distant creaking sinks into Crowley’s skull, puts his entire body and his reptile brain on high alert.

The front door.

It had been bolted shut, so there’s only two types of being who could have opened it - angel or demon. For a second, Crowley’s flat reeks of Grace before the smell snuffs out.

That points to _angel_.

Footsteps echo through his living room, their deliberateness cleaving up his spine, and Crowley takes another inhale of his sheets to relax. The footsteps sound eerie in their monotone cadence. They put his nerves on edge, bring on flashbacks of times throughout history when he’d found himself locked away in human prisons and dungeons, always on a mission from Hell but still, the way things were, especially during the Dark Ages, he could have been convicted for witchcraft or worse.

Revealed as a demon.

Humans have always been a wily, imaginative, and superstitious bunch. Mix those together, and even a demon might find themselves in a compromising situation.

Then things might have gotten a little sticky.

The reverberations of Aziraphale’s shoes against the marble floors bring Crowley back to those foreboding places that stank of iron, mildew, and death. It’s a stench impossible to remove from the nose, even using Hellfire. Crowley knows.

He’s tried.

When Aziraphale normally walks through Crowley’s flat, it’s with a chaotic song and dance from the kitchen to deposit food, to the living room to drop off books, to the garden to bless the plants, all while calling Crowley’s name and chattering on about his day.

But the being making their way through his flat is patient. And silent. Without that initial whiff of Grace, it would be impossible to tell these footsteps from a stranger’s. They’re measured, unhurried, consistent.

Terrifying, truth be told.

The footsteps round the corner to his room. With his back turned to the doorway and his eyes closed, Crowley can’t see, and for all of his fighting to stay still, his knees begin to quake. The footsteps approach, slower and more ominous than before. When they reach the edge of his bed and stop, there’s no turning back for him.

Crowley has never tried anything like this with Aziraphale. They’ve never even broached the subject of this before. For their relationship, which is in its infancy regardless of how long they’ve associated with one another, this is on a level they’re nowhere near, a level they can’t even see from where they are.

This could turn out to be the worst idea of all bad ideas in the known universe.

Crowley is partly afraid where this will leave the two of them - where Aziraphale seeing Crowley like this will leave them. But he’s far more curious … and _stubborn_. Determined to see this through if Aziraphale is. Aziraphale is the one who said sex is just that. Sex. Nothing that happens here right now can change how they feel about one another unless they let it.

In that case, he’ll see if his angel is willing to put his money where his mouth is.

“Well, well, well …” Aziraphale says before catching himself, but the sound of his voice makes Crowley’s legs shake more, sends crops of icy slivers racing along his limbs. That voice, much lower than Aziraphale’s speaking voice, doesn’t sound like Crowley’s angel at all.

There’s a taste of the demonic in it.

The thud of shoes dropping ring out as violently as a gunshot in this tense quiet. Crowley’s shoulders jerk with each one. The bed rocks, indicating that Aziraphale has climbed up behind him. Fingertips trail down Crowley’s back - light touches raising goose flesh everywhere at once. Strong hands caress his arse, kneading and spreading, and fuck it all if Crowley doesn’t tremble, waves starting at his shoulders, racing down to his knees. The hands return to his back, moving in firm, soothing circles up and down the column of his backbone, and Crowley liquifies.

Crowley can’t fathom that this is Aziraphale’s first time giving a lover a massage. _Why would it be?_ he thinks bitterly. Aziraphale has never said as much, but Crowley always imagined Aziraphale took lessons on sex and seduction at some fancy French gentlemen’s club, like the one where he learned to dance The Gavotte, most likely during that century Crowley spent asleep. The next time Crowley saw him, Aziraphale had a certain air about him, something in his manner that stood out.

That Crowley could not define. An assurance, one that comes from overcoming an obstacle.

Or perfecting a skill.

Aziraphale’s hands part ways at Crowley’s hips, each traveling in opposite directions along the line of the belt hugging Crowley’s waist. Crowley sucks in a breath when those hands circle round to massage down his front, along both sides of his erection without touching it, which has to be hotter than if Aziraphale had grabbed him and started stroking. 

Aziraphale removes his hands from Crowley’s crotch, and the light touch returns to his back, between his shoulder blades, sliding down to the belt around his hips. 

Then Aziraphale’s hands disappear again. 

Crowley hears a rustle of fabric, then a swish above his head as something flies over. Crowley opens one eye a slit to peek in time to glimpse Aziraphale’s waistcoat shoot by, joining his coat on the floor. His shirt goes next, then his undershirt, all collecting in a neat pile on the ground.

A zip lowers, the sound so distinct to Crowley’s ears it commands his full attention. He waits for another noise to knock it out of the running - a breath, a stumble, another rustle of fabric, _anything_. He longs to hear Aziraphale talk to him, say something to ease his sudden onset of chilly feet.

Call him by his name.

He could ask for it. He knows he could, and his angel would oblige, but he bites his tongue.

No. He wants this. He honestly does want this.

He keeps his mouth shut, locks his tongue behind his teeth.

No other sound follows.

Only touch. 

The first touch isn’t Aziraphale’s cock at his entrance, but his tongue licking past the crack of Crowley’s arse, stopping to circle his hole, then continuing its way toward his spine. Crowley’s jaw drops and a moan of pure pleasure erupts from his throat, so foreign to his own ears he has a hard time believing he’s the one producing it. Aziraphale licks the trail back again from Crowley’s spine to his balls, and Crowley’s moan turns into a single word.

“ _Fuck_ …”

Aziraphale continues lapping at his hole, sucking, savoring. He stops at Crowley’s balls, taking them in his mouth one at a time so gently, with a light graze of his teeth and a swirl of his tongue, that Crowley’s eyes roll to the back of his head. That same tongue, that same hot mouth, finds a way to lick along the base of Crowley’s cock, unable to reach the head at this angle, but that doesn’t matter. Crowley can’t seem to find the strength to stay upright anymore. His legs slide open, his body sinking to the mattress, and Aziraphale grabs the belt to hold him up.

The loss of heat when Aziraphale takes his mouth away is so overwhelming, Crowley shivers from the cold. But that’s replaced quickly by a searing heat pinging in Crowley’s brain when a bluntness pushes against him, forcing its way into his body, vying for entrance.

Aziraphale entering Crowley doesn’t hurt, will never hurt (unless Crowley requests it), but he still takes his time, inching forward to make it last. Aziraphale pushes in, pulls out, pushes in further, till finally he’s leaning against Crowley, their bodies pressed together. Aziraphale fucks Crowley hard, then slow, hard again, and then he stops, leaning over Crowley’s body to stroke him a few times before starting the cycle over, or reversing it, or reaching inside Crowley’s body with the appendage of his true form to stimulate Crowley’s prostate, starting from the inside and working his way out.

Aziraphale plays with Crowley in ways that he never dreamed possible - _frustrating_ ways. But it fascinates Crowley. Aziraphale is an angel. When and where would an angel need to know this? But then Crowley remembers that Aziraphale has been a tempter for thousands of years. He learned this, in essence, by doing Crowley’s work.

And Aziraphale is expert at it.

Aziraphale unlocks a startling array of sensations inside Crowley, his body reacting in ways he’s never experienced - the sound of his own voice a tormented whine where it resonates in his chest; his legs shaking with a need to drop out from beneath him, but also to push higher and meet Aziraphale’s hips; the restlessness of his wrists and ankles as he fights his body’s instinct to buck back, his limbs refusing to stay still.

At this angle, Aziraphale fucking him almost hurts. Despite being a demon, it frightens Crowley how much he enjoys it. With every push, every stroke, time rewinds, until Crowley can’t seem to remember a word of the conversation that lead them here, can’t remember how exactly he got where he is, bound on his own bed, fucked into his mattress by Aziraphale.

Aziraphale puts a shaking hand to Crowley’s neck and pulls him up. He fumbles with Crowley’s hands, slipping them out of the belt, and then pushes Crowley back into place. Forgoing the belt, Aziraphale holds Crowley’s wrists in one hand behind his back and pounds him again, pulling Crowley’s arms like reins. It’s uncomfortable being held like this, but it adds to the point that he’s nothing but a hole for Aziraphale’s use.

It’s everything he wanted.

Aziraphale grunts, shuddering like he’s reached the finish line of a marathon, his body seizing up in refusal to go a single step farther. “Oh, Crowley … whoops! … Oh dear! I’m sorry, but I … I can’t …” His hips stutter, his hand shakes. He stops the pace that Crowley had come to rely on to drive him forward, and Crowley sees the prospect of his own climax flickering in a blurry distance.

“Please,” Crowley whimpers, near tears at the thought that this orgasm, _this_ one in particular, will be ruined. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

“I … I’m trying …” Aziraphale groans. He can barely push himself a final time, his physical entity rebelling. He holds Crowley’s arms so tight in his fist that he cracks Crowley’s wrists. But Aziraphale steels himself, manages to shove in one last time with a guttural, “Fuck!” slamming into Crowley’s sweet spot with such ferocity that that, combined with Aziraphale’s splintered voice, makes Crowley come.

And _God_ , does he come.

Aziraphale holds Crowley as his orgasm rolls through him, binds his wrists but keeps one hand on his back, massaging tight muscles as Crowley cries out.

When Crowley’s body settles, Aziraphale lets go.

Crowley’s arms, stretched to their limits, sore at all joints, flop down on the bed. Crowley feels Aziraphale pull out, then the bed bob as he climbs off the edge. Crowley lays still to go unnoticed, drifting back to the fantasy to deal with what happens next.

The man comes in, uses him, leaves, and then the fantasy ends.

Aziraphale uses him, leaves, and the fantasy ends.

Now Crowley will have to deal with the one thing he didn’t consider thoroughly. 

Being alone after this glorious moment of fulfillment, when what he really wants is to wallow in his angel’s arms.

Crowley breathes in and doesn’t breathe out, listening for Aziraphale’s footsteps, waiting for him to walk out the door so that Crowley can begin the process of juggling fallout. God, how is this going to play out between them? Will Aziraphale text him on the way home? Wait till he gets to his bookshop?

Will he wait a day? A few days? A week?

A lifetime?

Ever again?

And while these thoughts spiral past the verge where a single sprig of lavender will surely not save them, Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s upper arms and lifts, helping him to his hands and knees, then leads him up to the head of the bed. Those same hands lay Crowley down, rub his sore arms and pet his mussed hair. They remove the belt, then cover Crowley with a blanket, tucking it in around him to keep him warm. When that’s done, again Crowley expects Aziraphale to go, but the bed dips and arms wrap around him. A chest presses against Crowley’s back, a sigh wafts over his shoulder, and Crowley comes to the realization that Aziraphale isn’t leaving.

Not yet.

Aziraphale breathes in several times like he’s about to say something, changing his mind twice before he begins. “I can’t remember … what happens after you have sex with your mystery man?” He places kisses on Crowley’s shoulder between words, in his hair, on his neck. He can’t stop kissing him. He doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want this to be over. Before Aziraphale arrived, he thought he was reuniting with the demon he’d fallen in love with after a forced separation to scratch a sentimental itch, then be off again for another two months … or until the humans get their collective shite together.

But this act, which he’d considered more than taboo …

… he didn’t expect to enjoy it so much.

He didn’t expect it to awaken anything in him. But it has. It’s shined a new light on the physical part of their relationship.

And it’s not something Aziraphale wants to let go of.

“I---I don’t know.” Crowley shoves down the same thoughts, the same feelings, even if he doesn’t know Aziraphale shares them yet. “That’s where the fantasy ends. He leaves …” He chokes up admitting “… a-and I never see him again.”

Aziraphale nods against Crowley’s hair. “Is that what you want, my dear?” he asks, voice so soft it’s essentially a hum against Crowley’s skin. “Do you want me to go, and we never speak of this again?”

“No,” Crowley answers quickly, honestly, tugging Aziraphale’s arms, wrapping them tighter around him. “No, that’s … that’s not what I want.”

Crowley feels his angel nod. “What do we do now then?” Aziraphale flips things around, climbing over Crowley’s body, sneaking under the blankets and inside his demon’s embrace.

“I really don’t know.” Crowley coils around him, refusing to let him go.

“Maybe we can lie here together and figure it out?”

“Yeah.” Crowley buries his nose in Aziraphale’s hair and breathes in deep. Aziraphale’s natural scent - sweet in a way nothing else on Earth can claim to be - overwhelms the lavender, knocks it out of existence. Crowley knows that sleep will come to claim him soon. He wishes it wouldn’t. Not until he knows for certain that Aziraphale will be there when he wakes. “Let’s do that.”


End file.
